


if i had a gun

by gaialux



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: spnkink_meme, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-21 00:17:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaialux/pseuds/gaialux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sam didn't look for him in Purgatory, Dean knows it's because Sam wanted a life. There's only one way to let him have that, but Sam's not about to let it happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if i had a gun

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a kink prompt: Dean is convinced that Sam thinks he would be better off without him, so why doesn't he just make that dream a reality? Sam comes back to the hotel to find Dean with his finger on the trigger, ready to end it all. I'd like there to be focus on Sam desperately trying to talk Dean down, begging him to tell him why he wants to end his life, and once he finally finds out, trying his very best to save his brother and his lover. Comfort sex would be much appreciated, but isn't required.
> 
> Supernatural does not belong to me. This piece of fiction was written for entertainment purposes only, no profit is gained.

The hunt was a bust, just a group of teenagers freaking people out, and he’s vaguely reminded of the job back in Richardson five or something years ago. Thankfully this one avoided the sigils and the only terrifying element was the pentagrams spread on every wall. Nothing more satanic in this world than protection symbols.  
  
When he reaches the motel, Sam’s surprised to see the impala sitting alone in the parking lot. Dean had split and left Sam to awkwardly explain how playing dead didn’t bode well with a retirement village across the street, and Sam’s natural assumption told him that Dean plus bar equalled the norm. He just tried to avoid the other thoughts that told him people could change a lot in a year, and it’s not like Sam was around then. Or the year before. He shakes his head, blocks out the car, and turns the unlocked door into their room.  
  
“Dean, I swear to God – next time you’re gonna try and explain to kids --”  
  
He notices the box first. Set on the bed with black duct tape placed methodically over each end. Maybe it’s that methodical piece that throws him, because it just isn’t a word you put in the thesaurus alongside Dean Winchester, and he knows he hasn’t done it. It’s only then he’s aware of the person next to the box, seated at edge of the bed, and Sam’s eyes trail up to his face.  
  
“Dean...”  
  
He’s moved it, but Sam’s not stupid. At this point he wishes he was, wishes he didn’t have senses off the charts from all that childhood training. Maybe then his heart wouldn’t be rising in his throat, and his whole body wouldn’t be burning, the back of his head not prickling with heat.  
  
“Dean,” he repeats, and this time it’s stronger. His eyes lock on Dean's arm, on the hand he's hidden behind his back. He can't look at Dean, can't match his eyes. And then it's like all his mind to mouth can reach, the only thing he can say, is: "Dean."  
  
"Hey, Sam." And Dean's voice, it brings that prickling to a burn and it courses out throughout Sam's arms, makes his hands begin to shake. So monotone, so dead. So fucking painful around Sam that he can hardly breathe.  
  
Only he plays dumb, holds onto that and tries to think rationally. To convince himself that the box...that it's some of Bobby's things, or something. Maybe Dean's cleared out another of John's sheds and collected the last remaining pieces. Maybe it's guns, maybe it's ammunition, maybe it's fucking food he's stolen from some warehouse. He racks his brain for anything that could make sense, only none of it does. None of it makes more sense than his first thought.  
  
"Dean, what are you doing?" He finally, finally brings himself to say the words.  
  
Dean shakes his head and doesn’t go to say anything. Sam forces himself to look at his brother, to try and catch his eye, but Dean’s averting it, looking around the room and avoiding everything Sam is. Now he knows; that box is his first thought. Heat from his neck and arms prickles at his eyes and he bites down on his tongue, tasting the flecks of blood placed there but feeling none of the pain.  
  
He has to ask anyway, has to know... “Dean. Why do you have a gun?”  
  
Time seems to stall. Maybe even come to a complete halt. It’s during this stop in the world that Dean’s hand moves, and he slides the silver gun across the bed, moves it up and rests it on the box.  
  
“Tired, Sam.” His words begin time again.  
  
“What--” Sam tries to swallow down the lump in his throat, but it’s not moving. “What are you talking about?”  
  
Dean shakes his head again, and Sam watches his hand move across the gun’s handle, fingers over the trigger, thumbs its barrel. All of it, every movement, and that prickling heat and rising lump just grow more prominent in Sam until he can’t keep staring any longer.

“Please, you’re not --”  
  
“What?” Dean’s eyes snap up and Sam sees into them. Sees eyes that match his brother’s tone and Sam falls back against the doorframe, pain spreading and aching and he doesn’t know how he can keep staring. There’s nothing there, all of it’s just this deep, deep pain he hasn’t seen in Dean in a long time - if ever. “Not gonna what, Sammy?”  
  
“Give me the gun.” His voice chokes and his eyesight blurs, Sam pushes tears angrily away. And he is angry, that’s the only emotion he can hold onto in the sea where everything else is crashing down. “Give it to me.”  
  
Dean doesn’t seem to react. His hands stay on that gun and the only way Sam came describes his actions is fucking stroking. Hand stroking over that gun and Sam can’t stop himself from charging across the room and reaching for the weapon.  
  
Only Dean’s too fast and it’s wrapped in his hands while he jumps from the bed, leaving Sam to grasp at air and the cardboard of the box. He looks over at Dean who’s pressing against the wall, gun raised. Only it’s not pointing the way it should be, it’s not Dean with the strength of a gunslinger aiming at the target of some son of a bitch monster. No, it’s not that, it’s Dean with the gun at his hip and pointed toward himself.  
  
“Dean --” Sam’s voice catches and he takes a step toward his brother. That step, and Dean raises the gun half an inch higher. Sam stops mid-movement, stays completely still. “What the hell are you doing?”  
  
Dean shrugs, and when his shoulders come back down the gun is higher than before. Inch by painful inch it’s moving upward. In line with the bottom of his ribs now, ebbing into his dark shirt and Sam just wants to rush over and grab it, take the gun and throw it into oblivion. Suddenly regrets the whole idea of hunting, of leaving them to reach these weapons so easily. Only he can’t move, because he’s absolutely terrified about how real Dean looks about all of this.  
  
“Why? Sam manages to get out instead.  
  
Again Dean shrugs, again the gun moves higher and Sam winces at the sight. No, please -- fuck, no. “What am I doing here, Sammy?”  
  
Sam swallows. “That’s what I’d like to know. Just -- just gimme the gun, Dean. Don’t have to say anything, just --”  
  
Dean shakes his head, scoffs. “No. I don’t -- fuck -- I mean, all of this -” he waves the hand with the gun around the room and settles it back to his side, this time higher. It’s gotta be pressing into his ribs. Sam’s heart is pounding against his own. “- why, Sam? You said it yourself, I pulled you away from the woman you loved. What the fuck, man? I shouldn’t of -- I can’t --”  
  
“Dean, no --” He doesn’t worry about the tears anymore, doesn’t even bother to wipe them away. But Dean’s dry eyed, he’s looking evenly at Sam. Sam hates how calm he is, hates how it seems as though Dean’s planned this. Like it was going to happen, no matter what, and that guilt just tears through Sam’s body to the point where he’s gasping to breathe.  
  
“Not your fault, Sammy,” Dean says as Sam struggles to stop himself from doubling over, “I gotta let you go. Gotta let you have a life. So fucking selfish, man -- you had a life, you --”  
  
“No!” He shouts the word and it bounces across the walls. Dean still doesn’t do so much as flinch. But that gun, that fucking gun, is just moving upward. Sam can’t deal with it, he can’t--  
  
“Dean.” The shouting’s gone and his voice, it’s bordering on a strangled whisper. “When you came to get me at Stanford, I promised you it’s just gonna be us against the world. I meant that - I still mean that - nothing’s changed. Nothing.”  
  
“You didn’t look for me--” Sam opens his mouth to speak, to protest, almost tempted to punch Dean for saying that “--hey, it’s okay. Doesn’t matter anymore. Not at all. But I had to think, had to consider why, and I get it Sam - really. You had a life, you had what you always wanted. Not some fucking sicko brother always holding you back...”

“Dean. _Dean!_ ” He holds out his arms and tries that step forward again. He’s closer and Dean’s still. The gun settled close to his heart. No sudden movements, can’t let this be his fault... “Dean, please. None of that’s true. I didn’t look because I didn’t know where. You have no idea how much I wanted to -- how much I needed to --” And he has to cut off, because his throat and chest are burning.  
  
“Sammy --” Dean’s voice holds something and Sam looks to him, tries to find some spark of light in eyes that are clouded, coated, in darkness. “I’m not blaming you. I’m trying to think about you. I gotta stop burdening you, gotta stop being so selfish. I should never have taken you from Stanford, maybe then none of this woulda happened --”  
  
“Don’t say that! Don’t even think that!” He breathes in, forces himself to keep calm even when his heart is pounding so loud in his ears and he’s just fucking terrified. It’s the only word he can find to describe the way he feels right now. “I knew what I was getting into, and it’s too late to change anything now.”  
  
“So it’s adapt and survive, hey Sammy?” Dean’s got a painful grin on his face.  
  
Now it’s Sam’s turn to shake his head. “Whatever we have - whatever this messed up, crazy thing we have is - I’m glad we have it. At the end of it all, I’m glad we’re here. And I need you to think that, too.”  
  
That facade, it seems to snap with Dean taking in a shuddering, hitched breath. Sam forgets that he told himself not to move and covers the remaining few steps between himself and his brother. Then it’s simply a matter of running his hands through Dean’s hair and across his back, splaying fingers to cover as much space as he can, whispers “I’m here,” while Dean leans up to find his mouth. Sam’s tears mix there, making him taste salt with his brother and he can’t stop, can hardly breathe, but he won’t move away, just breathes what he can into Dean’s mouth. The outside world is gone, just like always, but Sam’s aware when there’s a thud on the carpet and knows what it is. Relief washing over him and he’s all but collapsing into Dean’s arms. Just keeps kissing him, doesn’t care about the lack of oxygen or how pathetic he is to be crying against Dean, stopped mattering the moment he walked through the door.  
  
Even when Dean pulls away Sam won’t let him far, presses his face to the crook of his brother’s neck and pushes hands tighter into Dean’s back. He’s just grateful Dean isn’t trying to escape. At the very least he’s accepting it, and that’s all Sam could ask for right now. “Can’t go yet,” he murmurs into the warm skin, “Won’t let you. Need you.”  
  
It’s then Dean’s shrugging him away, and Sam’s never been so reluctant to let go in his life. Not even after hell, after purgatory...  
  
Sam follows Dean’s eyes to the ground, where the gun sits on stained carpet and catches grungy light from the above bulb. The gun is the only thing in this room that could be considered clean, the only thing that shines or stands out in the murkiness.  
  
“You can do it on your own,” Dean says, “Know you could.”  
  
“I don’t want to,” he says, “Not after everything.”  
  
Dean purses his lips, tongue brushing out to run over them. Sam just waits, waits for Dean to go for the gun or to look up. Hopes it’s the former, hopes so hard his nails are digging into his palms.  
  
“Do you remember when all this started?” he asks suddenly, “Back seat of the impala - Dad on a hunt. I was sick, I think - yeah, stomach flu or something - and you stayed. Promised me that night you’d never leave me. Been thirty years and you haven’t.” He tries to breathe, his voice wavers. “Don’t change it now.”  
  
“Sam...”  
  
“You save my life, over and over and over. Always looking out for me. And when Dad wasn’t there? Knew I could find you. Knew you’d drop everything for me - even before that night. And Dean I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry...” He has to catch himself, the tears streaming faster now and he doesn’t think he could stop them if he tried. Only now Dean’s also got tears flecking his, one escapes while Sam watches and forces him to go on. “I hate that I made you think otherwise. It’s not true. None of it is. Amelia...Dean, what we have, nobody - nobody - could ever fill that space. And I wouldn’t let them.”

“I’m not asking you --”  
  
“I know,” Sam says, and the tears are stopping. Something inside is letting him breathe again. “But it’s all true. Every word. It’d still be true if you weren’t --” and there goes that breath, trapped in his throat and refusing to budge. He hates his eyes for moving back to the ground, and quickly returns to find Dean.  
  
“Just thought it would be better,” Dean’s voice is a murmur, a musing.  
  
Sam knows he wants to find something to say, and he also knows the words aren’t needed. Always believes him, not changing things now. He wraps his arms around his brother again and this time he manages to make Dean leave the wall, guiding him across the floor. He avoids the gun at all costs, wants to forget its existence, and instead has Dean on the bed. He moves the box, quickly, slides it square across the room to hide under a bench. For a vague moment he questions what would be in it - what would Dean want kept? - but then he just forgets about it. Forgets about everything except Dean, except the pain.  
  
“Sam, you don’t...”  
  
“Shh,” Sam whispers and presses Dean back against the dipping mattress with a slow, deep kiss, working a hand under his shirt and pressing fingers against the warm skin, “Want to."   
  
He pulls the shirt over Dean’s head and throws it in the direction of that box, followed by his own jacket and shirt. A hand works to unbutton both their jeans and Sam moves gently, hand knows where it’s going and he keeps eyes on Dean, continues to kiss him until both their jeans and underwear are off, bunched up in the corner of the bed along with half the sheets.  
  
Then he lets his lips trail to the crook of Dean’s ear and neck, murmurs, “This is what I want.” Back to Dean’s mouth where he whispers, “Driving next to you. Just us.”  
  
“Sammy...”  
  
“Love you,” Sam murmurs by Dean’s ear, frantic, “So much.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Dean’s saying into his shoulder, words coming as pained gasps, “Sammy, I’m so fucking sorry --”  
  
“Shh.” Sam moves to face his brother, makes them see eye to eye again. And he knows Dean’s sorry. Sees it on every piece of his skin, every fleck of green in his eyes. And he feels it. Feels it coursing through him with the touch of Dean’s skin. And it hurts. Hurts so bad his heart is thumping against his ribs and his stomach pulls. “I know, I know. Should never have made you feel that way. Never again. Never. I promise.”  
  
He moves down to Dean’s neck, breaks skin softly with his lips and teeth to join the marks from hunts. Broken bones, scrapes, stabs, bullets. They’ve been hit with them all, bled out over each other - bled for one another. Not a second of it would Sam take back. He’d never stop saving his big brother. And he’d never stop trying to make it all better.  
  
He runs his hands down the length of Dean’s body, responds to every single movement. He’s learnt this body, better than he knows even his own. First he tried to be it, to be all Dean was, but it was better to just sync with it. The two of them just being one, and trying to take away what hurts the other. Sam’s determined to take away everything he’s caused. If not for Dean, then for his own conscience that claws as he tries hard to just keep breathing. To just keep going.  
  
Because Dean’s not the only one who thinks they’re better off without the other.  
  
He wraps a hand around Dean’s half-hard length and it doesn’t take long to bring it all the way to erection. He moves back up Dean’s body, kisses him again, whispers, “Always you,” and then down again here Sam takes him into his mouth. Dean’s hips arch skywards and Sam’s vaguely aware of words coming from his brother. More like white noise, endearments he keeps locked away because Dean’s never been big on them. It’s just Sammy.  _His_  Sammy. And that’s enough. It’s always been enough.

Dean’s hands wrap into Sam’s hair with a final “Sammy--” and Sam just holds him, hands hooked around Dean’s hips for however long it takes Dean’s hands to loosen, for him to pull away just that little bit, letting Sam know. Sam traces kisses back up his brother’s body, soft and slow over every scar. Everything someone else might consider an imperfection. To Sam they’re beautiful. To Sam, Dean’s just fucking perfect.  
  
He kisses his mouth again. Once upon a time this was a no-go - “gross, Sammy” - but Dean seems to have stopped caring. He opens his mouth and lets their tongues touch, Sam sighing into it, and he’s trying to tell Dean everything he hasn’t been able to with words.  _alwaysyou, soperfect, neveragain_. It’s insane, but he thinks Dean knows. Dean just always has this way of knowing.  
  
Even when they move apart Sam’s got a hand on Dean’s face, the other on his heart. Can feel the weary beat under his fingertips and he’s sure he matches it. _Thump...thump...thump_. It’s silent except for this, even their breathing seems to have disappeared. Everything. Just them. Sam smiles down at Dean, tries to hide how painful it must look, runs a hand across Dean’s cheek, and breaks their silence with a, “You gotta hold on.”  
  
Dean moves a hand from the sheet and rests it on Sam’s neck, and he can feel the fingers gently prodding, moving from nape of neck to shoulder blades, rubbing warmth as the high comes down and Sam’s aware of just how cold the room really is. Busted motel heating, it’s to be expected.  
  
“How about I strike you a deal?” Dean asks.  
  
“Listenin’,” Sam says at a murmur, he’s afraid to hear it, but Dean’s heartbeat doesn’t change.  
  
The hands shifts and slides over Sam’s chest, above his heart. “You carry the guns. All of it, Sammy. I stay as long as you need me to.”


End file.
